


All Our Yesterdays

by Northernsociety



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens Fluff, Alternate History, American Politics, Fluff and Angst, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Innocent Maria Reynolds, Lams - Freeform, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Reunions, The Reynolds Pamphlet, back from the dead, john was dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29930049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northernsociety/pseuds/Northernsociety
Summary: The world both narrows and expands at the same time, the force of those four words pulling the breath straight from Alexander’s lungs. His chest tightens, the edges of his vision blur and darken and he feels Maria pressed against him, slender arms holding him upright. He trembles in Maria’s arms as he tries to comprehend the impossible.Because John Laurens died fifteen years ago.The alternative story of the Reynolds Pamphlet.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	1. Ruin and Reputation

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my attempt at rewriting history. This will no doubt descend into my usual brand of fluffy angsty hurty historical madness, so if you're here for that, do stick around.  
> A bit of background info: In this world, Maria and Alexander are friends, Alexander has never married for 'reasons' so rumours are starting to grow, and John Laurens died fifteen years ago, breaking our boy's heart. Alexander and Maria concoct the Reynold's Pamphlet to quash the rumours about Alexander's (lack of) a love life and to free Maria from her vicious husband. But pssssst... Laurens is not dead.  
> Not sure that I need to mention that it's not historically accurate, but hopefully it feels like it could be!

Alexander Hamilton stirs, stretching his legs out beneath his desk, shaking the cramp from his hand where he has gripped his quill too tightly. The candle crackles and flickers as it burns low, exhaling a wisp of smoke that serves to remind Alexander of how long he has been hunched over the stack of foolscap. He furrows his brow, tickling his top lip with his quill as he ponders his work.

He is not happy with it – he never is happy with his writing – but as is so often the case, time is of the essence. Careful not to smudge any of his meticulously crafted words, he dips his quill once more into the pot of ink.

_Observations on certain documents contained in No. V of VI of ‘The History of the United States for the year of 1796 in which the charge of speculation against Alexander Hamilton…_

His penmanship is a source of stubborn pride and he ensures every word is as neat as the first words he penned this evening, despite the fatigue plaguing his wrist and fingers.

_…is fully refuted. Written by himself._

The candle hisses and puffs once more as he sets down his quill. With a crack and pop of stiff joints, he stretches his arms above his head, feeling a familiar ache in his neck and shoulders. He should retire to bed, but the sky is already starting to lighten with the first rays of morning sun.

He tucks down a few stray strands of hair and locates his cravat, which he had discarded carelessly on the side table the night before. A quick glance at his reflection in the looking glass on ledge above the fireplace tells him that he no longer can afford these sleepless nights without paying the consequence. The skin beneath his eyes is shadowed – almost bruised in the dim light – and his complexion is sickly and pallid. During the war, he would often go with little or no sleep for most nights in the week and still maintain his youthful vibrance – a trait that had won him admiration from his fellow soldiers and given him an advantage in rising up the ranks.

But now a weariness hangs over him and it is reflected in the looking glass. With a sigh, he turns away, his attention once more on the pile of foolscap, his hand flexing in indecision.

_How has it come to this?_

The pamphlet in his hands was Maria’s idea, and he had to admit it was a good one. Releasing it out into the world and facing the repercussions for a fictitious affair will be far better than allowing the current rumours to spread. It will save them both.

___

George Washington’s letter arrives two weeks to the day after the pamphlet has been typed and published. The backlash has been worse than Alexander could have imagined, but these are accusations and whispers that he can cope with. He skims the letter with a pounding heart, his eyes drawn with relief to the last sentence.

 _…that you would be persuaded, that with every sentiment of the highest regard, I remain your sincere friend, and affectionate Hble Servant_.

Washington does not condemn him – nor does he ask for an explanation. Alexander has always thought that one of Washington’s greatest qualities was his readiness to accept without the need to poke and pry. In the early days, when his childhood had been the deepest wound he had to bear, Washington had readily welcomed him into his family of aides with barely a question. It had been a relief not to have to face the memory of his days on St Croix or make excuses for the man he was supposed to call father. And to this day, Washington has never asked Alexander when or whom he will marry.

A gentle tap on the door brings Alexander out of his reverie. He folds Washington’s letter and slips it into his pocket.

‘Come in,’ he says, a smile quirking at his lips as he recognises the familiar knock. ‘Although it is against my better judgement.’

‘I had to know that you’re ok,’ says Maria slipping through the door and Alexander grins at her lack of greeting or preamble. ‘Writing is too risky.’

‘I’m glad to hear you have been examining risks before doing anything you might regret,’ teases Alexander, gesturing at the empty chair at his desk in a display of welcome contrary to his words. He is pleased to see Maria, despite the recklessness of the situation.

‘You look tired,’ she says with a frown and Alexander finds he doesn’t like it when she isn’t smiling.

‘I have slept rather little in the last week,’ he offers by way of reply, yet he does not quantify exactly how little rest he has managed to come by. He can’t help but notice how well she looks, despite the implications the pamphlet has no doubt had on her life too. He feels the familiar stab of intrigue, guilt and confusion as he takes in her soft skin and expressive eyes. But it goes no deeper than intrigue, no matter how hard he tries to imagine it could be something else.

‘Is it that bad?’ she asks, reaching out and taking his hand. ‘I’ve seen what they’ve written about you.’

‘It’s better than it might be otherwise,’ he replies with a wry smile. Her hand is so small it barely covers his knuckles, but he is grateful for the gesture. She is the only living person who knows his secret – knows the _real_ reason he has not found a nice woman to marry – and she is not repulsed. It means everything in the world, and he wishes he could find the words to tell her this, but he is unable to find anything that could do it justice in the recesses of his exhausted brain. ‘Maria… thank you.’

‘I’m glad I could help you, Alexander. God knows you helped me when I didn’t think I’d be able to get out of bed one more day.’

‘This is more than that though,’ he says. ‘You’ve ruined your reputation for me. I don’t deserve it.’

‘I didn’t have much of a reputation to begin with,’ she shrugs. ‘And it has harmed my ridiculous husband more than it has harmed either of us. His rumours look like malicious lies. The people will get over our so-called affair, but they will never trust a word he says ever again.’

‘And you?’ asks Alexander, squeezing her hand in his. ‘Are you happy without him?’

‘Of course,’ she replies. ‘I’m free, and so are you. It doesn’t feel like it now, but it will get better.’

Alexander presses a chaste kiss to the smooth, unblemished skin on the back of her hand. He wishes every friendship was as easy, as comfortable and as intimate as this one.

‘But, Alexander…’ says Maria, tensing beneath his fingers. There is a strain in her voice that wasn’t there before and Alexander’s eyes flick to her face. Her brow is furrowed and she looks as though she is testing the feel of every word before she speaks further. ‘Something has happened that I thought you needed to know about. I’m not sure if I’m doing the right thing…’

‘Go on,’ he insists as Maria trails off, biting her lip.

‘Someone came to see me claiming to be an old friend of yours. He made a convincing case.’

‘I don’t have any old friends,’ says Alexander with a frown. ‘They all either died in the war, died since, or are still known to me. I can think of none who would appear in such mysterious circumstances. Did he give you his name?’

‘Yes,’ says Maria. ‘But he said not to repeat it to you as you would never believe me. You would think it some cruel joke.’

‘I think it some cruel joke anyway,’ says Alexander, dropping Maria’s hand from his. ‘If it is someone who truly knows me then…’

‘Alexander…’ whispers Maria, cutting through the start of his tirade before he can really get going. She looks at him, holding his gaze with wide, fearful eyes. ‘It is John Laurens.’

The world both narrows and expands at the same time, the force of those four words pulling the breath straight from Alexander’s lungs. His chest tightens, the edges of his vision blur and darken and he feels Maria pressed against him, slender arms holding him upright. He trembles in Maria’s arms as he tries to comprehend the impossible.

Because John Laurens died fifteen years ago.

Because John Laurens’ death ripped a hole in his heart that has never healed.

Because it simply cannot be true and the very idea of it _burns_.


	2. An Olive Branch

People simply do not rise from the dead. It is an irrefutable fact.

_But what if…?_

Alexander shakes his head abruptly. He cannot allow himself to dwell on impossibilities such as this. The meeting is arranged for early morning before too many people are out and about to witness such comings and goings. He needs a good rest and a clear mind if he is to meet this imposter and get to the bottom of it all.

He turns once more onto his side, pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders, his mouth set in determination as he impatiently waits for sleep to creep in.

The man calling himself John Laurens has researched his role very well indeed, right down to the scar on his right shoulder from a stray bullet in the Battle of Germantown, if Maria’s description is accurate. He gave her some words that were to prove the authenticity of his identity, and Alexander had indeed been stunned to hear the phrase ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Martha’ from Maria’s lips. Some others made him blush – a reference to their days at Valley Forge in particular – but Alexander had stopped breathing at the mention of Martha’s name. 

Maria would not deceive him, he is sure of that. But there must be deception somewhere because the alternative is a miracle, and Alexander stopped believing in miracles just over fifteen years ago.

He rises before the sun, clutching a vessel of strong coffee that does nothing more than make him tremble from too little sleep and too much caffeine. The ache in his heart is multi-faceted, and he is ashamed that among the other pains and pangs he feels a glimmer of hopeful excitement. He is not sure who will walk in the door – it won’t be John Laurens, he knows that deep down – but whoever it is _knows_ the essence of John. Even if it is deception of the foulest kind, John has lived for one more day.

He tries to answer Washington’s letter, but for the first time in his life words don’t flow from the end of his quill. He is aware of the first rays of the daylight creeping in through the cracks in the curtains, specks of dust dancing in the sunbeams like a magic spell.

He is so tense that he can’t help but jump at the sharp knock on the door, despite the fact it is all he has been waiting for. He reaches for the looking glass one last time, checks his hair is in place and there is no ink on his face. This is the _last_ moment, he realises. After this, John will be dead once more and all hope will be gone.

His hand trembles as he turns the handle, but curiosity is starting to win now. There is a certain beauty to this mystery, and he wants to solve it as much as he wants to keep the hope alive.

‘Alexander?’

The door swings open and his world swims at the sight and sound of the most familiar, most wanted thing that has ever walked the Earth. He wants to slam the door closed once more to preserve his sanity, but John Laurens, or a very good approximation, has already crossed the threshold.

‘What in God’s name…?’ mutters Alexander, running his hands through his hair. He backs away – it is all too much and he can think of nothing other than escaping this onslaught of feeling. ‘John…’

John lets the door fall shut behind him. He does not approach Alexander, but his hands flex at his sides and he sways uncertainly where he stands. The light in Alexander’s house is still dim, casting an eerie shadow over his face that makes Alexander almost certain it is a ghost before him. Because what else could it be?

‘This is impossible,’ whispers Alexander, pacing the floor now in attempt to expend all of this useless adrenaline. ‘This cannot be. How? John, say something.’

‘I’m sorry,’ whispers the figure. He exhibits so much control in the face of Alexander’s mumbling and jittering that he can’t help but think that this _must be John Laurens_. He has always been the calm to his storm, the light to his darkness and the reticence to his garrulity. Fifteen years may have passed, but within thirty seconds, they are fulfilling their old roles once more.

Alexander stares hard. _This is definitely John Laurens_. There may be more lines etched on his skin, there may be more grey in his hair, but the essence of him radiates. The familiarity of every angle, shadow and scar is gruelling, snatching Alexander’s breath from him with every second he stares.

‘How?’ chokes Alexander. ‘You are _dead_.’

‘No,’ replies John, and Alexander thinks that he might punch this man if he answers don’t soon contain more detail. ‘You thought I was dead.’

Alexander can tell that John doesn’t mean to be inflammatory. His voice is soft, his eyes full of caution and uncertainty as he tracks Alexander around the room. But _God_ does Alexander want to grab him around the throat and scream at him until he loses every ounce of strength in his arms and his voice is no more than a whisper.

‘You sit there,’ he says in a trembling voice, pointing at the chair tucked in at his desk. ‘And you talk, John Laurens.’

John nods, and then frowns. ‘I’ve never been very good at this, Alexander. You know me better than anyone.’

‘I _knew_ you,’ spits Alexander and regrets it when John flinches at the venom behind those words. But he can’t bring himself to apologise, so instead he waits, arms folded.

John begins slowly at first, eyes flicking up to Alexander to gauge reaction. But then he finds his stride, and words begin pour from him in a way that Alexander has never heard before. He stares at a spot on the floor next to Alexander’s left foot, almost unblinking as he talks.

‘If you thought I were dead, I hoped you could carry on with your life free from the sins I bring out in you. I’d made you angry when I confessed the truth about Martha, so I thought you would not mind too much to never hear from me or see me again.’

Alexander feels a wave of nausea at the mention of Martha’s name again, but does not interrupt. With a jolt he realises he had said just as much the last time he had laid eyes on John. The revelation that John had a wife and child had changed things, despite John’s insistence that it didn’t.

‘You had so much promise, Alexander. You were going on to bigger and better things, and it would have ended in disaster if we had continued…’ John trails off. They have never put a label on exactly what it was between them. ‘So I wrote to you. I wrote to Washington and Lafayette. I wrote myself out of the world.’

‘You are a coward,’ mutters Alexander.

‘I feared that this would be your reaction,’ says John. His shoulders are slumped in resignation, his right hand tracing the corner of the desk in absent-minded distraction. ‘And I do not condemn you for it. But I wish you would not turn me away. I have thought about you every minute of every day. I have watched your career from afar and I cannot tell you the pride I feel from knowing it is you behind the greatness of this new nation.’

‘But you never thought to write and tell me as such?’

‘I wanted to, Alexander. You have to believe me that it has been one of the biggest regrets of my life that I could not be by your side. Not in the way we both wanted.’

Alexander is wavering, vacillating from a red-hot anger to a sickening nostalgia that makes him want to throw himself into John’s arms and never let go. But he cannot do that. He will not do that.

‘I will never forgive you for this, John,’ he says, raising his chin in what he hopes is a show of defiance. ‘I have been heartbroken for fifteen years. Fifteen years, for God’s sake. Why now?’

‘I had to know that you’re ok. I’ve been reading about you and Maria. It’s all over the newspapers, and I couldn’t stay away without knowing the truth.’

Alexander snorts. ‘And what is it to a dead man?’

‘Is it true?’

The anguish in John’s question is so evident that Alexander softens momentarily. No matter how much time has passed, no matter how much this man has hurt him, he still cares about him more than anything else and he does not want to be the reason for any of the pain in those eyes. Even if he has spent almost half a lifetime in pain because of him.

‘Of course it’s not true.’

John looks up, renewed hope in his eyes. ‘Ok…’

The tension ebbs and a softness creeps into the way they look at one another. Alexander knows he should be angry – John has held all the cards and has picked his time. But he is _here_ and isn’t that all he has wanted?

‘I know you won’t believe me, Alexander, but I am so sorry. I have treated you so poorly. But I couldn’t stand to see those things written about you and not know that you’re ok.’

‘Or you could not stand the thought I’d moved on?’

‘I’d be lying if I said that was entirely untrue. But I would only ever wish you happiness if I thought that were really the case. I know how it looks, Alexander, but I hope to convince you that I am not that conniving.’

John reaches out a hand – an olive branch of sorts – and before Alexander can consider it any further, he takes it in his. And _oh_ to feel John alive once more, warm and solid beneath his fingertips. There is so much to discuss, but in the face of this progress, Alexander allows himself a moment to revel in the dizzying realisation that John is _alive_.


End file.
